Black Mood
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: "I can hear you thinking." Sherlock sneered. "It's torturous. I can almost hear the cogs wearing themselves away." He dramatically sniffed the air. "Is that smoke I smell? Perhaps you shouldn't overwork yourself such. Go back to your newspaper." My take on Sherlock's 'black moods'. Mycroft appears briefly.


**I'm not entirely sure where the inspiration for this one came from. I think I'm just experimenting with Sherlock's emotions again. I tried to keep the characters as in-character as possible as they're usually rather out of character. I'm not sure whether or not I succeeded.**

 **Admittedly this is slightly longer than my other stories. It just kept flowing.**

 **Sorry for any mistakes.**

Black Mood

Sherlock had been dreading this. Thoroughly dreading the day when John witnessed a full blown 'black mood'. Sherlock knew that it was coming, he knew as soon as he had awakened on the sofa in the early hours of the morning with a voice in the back of his mind telling him that _something_ just wasn't right. He'd entered the bathroom and showered and it was whilst he was standing in nothing but a towel, looking at his reflection in the mirror that he realised what it was. He could feel the curtains of depression pulling slowly around him, almost see them at the edges of his mind. With a sigh, he entered his bedroom, dressing carelessly in his pyjamas and dressing gown, not even noticing that his grey pyjama top was inside-out.

He dropped onto the sofa with an exaggerated groan, startling John who looked up from his newspaper with a frown. Sherlock had already rolled onto his side, facing the back of the sofa, but could feel John's eyes boring into him. He waited, preparing himself for the inevitable;

"What's up?"

And there it was. Not quite as impersonal as "are you okay?" but not as friendly as "what's wrong?". Whether John actually cared or not, Sherlock had to admit he didn't know. He just assumed that the doctor was asking out of expectation. Like he felt that it was the right thing to do. Sherlock didn't bother answering. He simply let out an exasperated sigh and curled himself up into a tighter ball.

"Ah, I see." John spoke, causing Sherlock to frown to himself. No he didn't. "'Sometimes I don't talk for days on end'. I'm guessing this is something I should get used to." He sighed and Sherlock could hear him shake the newspaper back to it's natural creases without a further word. But he could hear it. He could hear the cogs turning in John's brain as he ran through a list in his head. Depression; Bipolar Disorder. Sherlock knew that he was trying to label him. Trying to use his medical knowledge to place a diagnosis on Sherlock's behaviour and he wished he would just;

"Stop!"

Sherlock's voice startled even himself. But it worked. His sudden outburst had silenced John's thoughts. But not for long. His otherwise silent musings became verbalised thoughts.

"I wasn't doing anything." John defended himself and John scoffed with an eye roll.

"I can hear you thinking." Sherlock sneered. "It's torturous. I can almost hear the cogs wearing themselves away." He dramatically sniffed the air. "Is that smoke I smell? Perhaps you shouldn't overwork yourself such. Go back to your newspaper." He ordered.

The peace didn't last long before John's thoughts started up again and Sherlock shifted suddenly so that he was in a sitting position facing the doctor.

"My God," Sherlock breathed but John could hear the unspoken anger in his voice, "you're just like them. Trying to figure out what's wrong with me. Those doctors." His voice suddenly took on a mocking tone as his hands raised, over exaggeratedly mimicking others. "'Sherlock presents typical symptoms of depression, Mrs. Holmes.', 'It appears that these prescription drugs are doing very little to alleviate Sherlock's depression symptoms. Perhaps something stronger may help', 'Sherlock's portraying key symptoms of Bipolar Disorder, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps trying to occupy his mind would help.'". Sherlock's voice suddenly returned back to it's baritone, but John was certain that it was a few octaves lower than usual. "I don't need any more labels, John. Don't bother."

And with that he gave his curls an annoyed ruffle and flopped back on to the sofa.

"But don't worry, John." He spoke up again and the doctor began to pray for his not 'speak[ing] for days on end'. "I'm fairly certain that my meddling brother will either turn up on our doorstep or kidnap you before the end of the day so that he can 'brief' you on how to deal with me when I'm like this. No doubt with words such as 'leave him to it, he'll come around' and 'try not to distress him even more, it will only serve to harm you'. He acts like _I'm_ the problem." Sherlock gave a dry laugh.

"Sherlock," John's attempt at interrupting him was ignored as the detective continued his little rant.

"And no. Before you say it. Or he says it. You need not worry about the possibility of me somehow obtaining drugs. Yourself and he made it very certain that will not happen." Sherlock continued. "And I do not need to be monitored. In fact I think it will make everything easier if you would mind your own business. Why don't you go and look for a job or go to the library. Do whatever you wish but for God's sake, John, just _leave me alone_!" He spat in a hiss and John was left staring at him from his position on the sofa.

Sherlock could hear it. He knew it was coming. John wasn't his other flatmates, he wasn't someone who would just stand for being spoken to in such a way. He had been a soldier. In comparison to his enemy on the battlefield in Afghanistan, Sherlock was barely an annoying flea and now he was just waiting for John's to flick him. He heard the intake of breath and the rustle of John placing down his newspaper. He listened as John grumbled to himself but for some unknown reason, the doctor did not leave.

A few minutes of uncomfortable silence was replaced by the kettle in the kitchen being brought to the boil and less than 5 minutes later a mug of sweet smelling tea appeared by his shoulder.

"Honey and lemon," John informed as Sherlock rose from his lying position, eyeing the mug suspiciously before hesitantly taking it with a thin, pale hand, "there are biscuits in the kitchen cupboard if you fancy some. I think Mrs. Hudson brought around some ginger biscuits. Apparently she felt the need to tell me that they're you're favourite."

After an experimental sip, Sherlock decided that there wasn't anything to be worried about and the tea wasn't drugged. He had to admit that the beverage was oddly refreshing. John seemed to have taken the hint and did not speak for a while. It wasn't until the door to 221B opened and Sherlock let out a scoff that he broke the silence.

"What?"

The question was answered as a tapping on the staircase alerted him to the presence of one Mycroft Holmes, just as Sherlock had predicted.

"Now, brother dear," Mycroft spoke in a patronising tone that John swore he had heard before, "why are you giving Doctor Watson a hard time?"

At this John frowned, watching Sherlock roll his eyes at his brother's words.

"Must you try and chase off all of your potential flatmates? You _know_ how much Mummy dislikes your mood swings." Mycroft sighed. "It does disappoint her so."

"Are you hear for a reason, Mycroft?" John spoke up and Sherlock let loose a smirk. Good old John. Always knowing what to say and when to say it. "I think it's fairly obvious that Sherlock doesn't want you here."

"I'm here only to warn this brother of mine that such behaviour is not acceptable. Father always disliked it, didn't he, Sherlock?" He questioned rhetorically and Sherlock was unexpectedly taken back to the times in his childhood when he'd experience his parentally labelled 'black moods' and would damage anything and anyone who happened to get in the way. "Lets not frighten Doctor Watson away, now, Sherlock. He may be the only flatmate willing to put up with you."

Wordlessly John rose from his seat until he was standing in front of the British Government. Not eye to eye, not really, more eye to waistcoat buttons, but the sentiment was there and John's stance seemed to do the job. Moments later Mycroft turned wordlessly and exited the flat, the metal tip of his umbrella tapping against the stairs. John didn't expect a response from the detective, but he couldn't miss the grateful glimmer in his eyes that lasted only a second before it disappeared and Sherlock let out an over exaggerated yawn.

"Don't you have an experiment?" John inquired as he walked over to the couch. "Nothing to do?"

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock questioned in a bored tone and John couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Just to be safe, he answered.

"Surely there's something you can be getting on with. Aren't there some thumbs in the salad drawer?" He questioned, dropping onto his chair.

"Oh, boring." Sherlock sighed with a flippant wave of the hand and John was given the impression that when Sherlock was feeling like this, nothing was enough to occupy him.

"I'm going to order take out. Do Angelo's deliver?" John questioned casually and Sherlock frowned slightly before clearing his throat and answering in the affirmative. "What do you fancy?" He questioned, handing over the menu to the detective and making it clear that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

It wasn't until a little while later when John was in the shower and loudly singing a very out of tune rendition of 'Spirit in the Sky' that it occurred to Sherlock. He had initially assumed that John was being thoughtless, going about his day normally and he was anticipating the time when John stopped and told Sherlock that it was time to snap out of it. Instead, he realised, John was being understanding.

He wasn't complaining because he didn't think that Sherlock was doing anything wrong. He wasn't trying to change him because he didn't think that Sherlock's behaviour needed changing. He was treating Sherlock as he was, because that's what he saw. He saw _Sherlock_. He didn't see anything that needed fixing.

And as he lay back on the sofa, somehow having ended up with John's Union Jack pillow over his face, if he recalled correctly John had good naturedly thrown it at him when he had pointed out the fact that the doctor had dribbled his dinner down his clothing, it became obvious. John _understood_. The ex-army medic had been drained of his life. He was a doctor. He practically lived on the battlefield. He was a surgeon who could no longer perform operations.

He had been _depressed_ and he understood Sherlock.

And suddenly Sherlock felt accepted. And he had to admit that it was the best feeling in the world.

Indubitably.

 **As always, thank you for reading. I'd love it if you could leave a review.**

 **ibelieveinguardianangels**


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